


le beau garçon avec merci

by icarusandtheson



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Supernatural Elements, Blood Drinking, Fae & Fairies, Fae!Alex, Horror Elements, M/M, Resolved Romantic Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2017-11-07
Packaged: 2019-01-30 12:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,701
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12653544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icarusandtheson/pseuds/icarusandtheson
Summary: I met a boy in the meads,Full beautiful — a faery’s child,His hair was long, his foot was light,And his eyes were wild.George Washington picks up a hitchhiker on a cold autumn night.





	le beau garçon avec merci

**Author's Note:**

> For Hobbes, who beta'ed and helped with the translation of the title.

George blinks the haze from his vision, tightening his grip on the steering wheel. He flips through radio stations in an attempt to stay awake, but he’s apparently too far from a radio tower for any of his favorites to come through properly. Occasionally, a few bars of music find their way through the static, but it could be anything from jazz to classical, for all the clarity he gets each time.

He should have listened to Greene, booked a room at the quaint little bed and breakfast Greene and his wife were staying at for the weekend. At this point, the handful of hours he’ll save by driving back to the city tonight will be spent sleeping instead of working, defeating the entire purpose.

Christ, the drive didn’t seem this long on the way there. Unfamiliar farmland stretches out endlessly in front of him, road signs few and far between, and he begins to wonder if his GPS somehow managed to get him turned around.

Sighing, he glances away from the road to check the screen and figure out where he _is,_ exactly. He’s already passed a few turns, and if he takes the wrong road he could easily be driving until dawn.

A dark shape looms up suddenly in the corner of his eyes, and he breaks hard, expecting some kind of animal to bound across the road. But the figure stays where it is, still and upright, and George realizes it’s a person. George cuts his high beams, and in the softer lighting, he can make out a young man staring back at him with wide eyes, arms wrapped around himself.

Even exhausted and drained as he is, George realizes there’s no rational reason for someone to be out here at this time of night on foot. The kid looks harmless enough, but that doesn’t mean much. He _could_ be waiting for someone, or out wandering, strange choice of location aside. He’s not asking for help, either -- doesn’t try to wave George down, doesn’t approach the car. If anything he seems wary, stepping back into the tall grass. George taps his foot against the gas pedal, considering. Martha would tease him about his penchant for strays, if she was here.

Still, it’s late, the temperature is dropping, and Lord knows when someone else will pass through this godforsaken place, or what their intentions will be. He can at least ask, and if it turns out he misread the situation entirely, he can handle one scrawny kid. Something about the eyes, the way he holds himself -- George can imagine that face on the evening news, big mournful eyes staring out from the screen while the news anchor announces him missing or murdered. The thought twists something inside of him, inexplicable in its intensity. George sighs to himself and pulls over to the side of the road, cutting the engine.     

He watches as the boy approaches, cautious and slow. Worn clothes, tattered shoes, even younger than George thought at first glance -- the bit of dark fuzz on his face buys him a few extra years, but close-up, he can’t be older than twenty. A runaway, maybe, or one of the barely-legal homeless kids failed by the foster system.

Dark bruises smudge the skin under his eyes, and George thinks he can see the boy’s hands trembling slightly where they grip his faded T-shirt. No jacket, no backpack, and not a spare ounce of meat on his bones to guard him from the chill. George checks the temperature on his dashboard and grimaces. He rolls down his car window, cold slicing through him. The boy shifts back a step like he’s going to run, but he seems to think better of it, continuing until he’s a few feet away. Close enough to speak, far enough to have a head start if he needs to bolt. It seems like a well-practiced distanced, and George wonders how often he’s ended up in this situation before.

“Do you need some help, son?” George asks gently.

The boy starts visibly, almost a flinch, but he doesn’t retreat. “I…” He pauses, eyes darting up the road and back to George. “I need a lift.” His voice is clear, if tinged with suspicion. He seems sober, stable, clearly weighing the option of staying where he is against taking a risk with a stranger.

“If you tell me where you’re headed, I’ll do my best to get you there,” George says. The boy says nothing, large dark eyes focusing on George’s face uncertainly. “I understand if that makes you feel unsafe. You could use my phone to call someone you trust, if that makes you more comfortable. I can wait with you until they get here.”

The boy huffs a humorless laugh, shifting to run his hands up and down his arms as the wind picks up. “I don’t have anyone to call.” He presses his mouth into a thin line, teeth digging briefly into his bottom lip. “It’s not that far, maybe… fifteen, twenty minutes down the road. Is that okay?”

“That’s fine,” George assures him, unlocking the passenger side door. He places his hands back on the wheel, clearly visible, and tries to stay as still as possible as the boy opens the door with uncertain, jerky movements. The boy settles into the passenger’s seat, glancing warily at George. He’s holding himself almost impossibly rigid and still, and George half-expects him to jump out of the car.

George reaches for his phone, withholding a grimace at the way the boy shifts to the edge of his seat, curling in on himself against the door. George unlocks his phone and holds it out. “So you can call for help if you need to,” George explains at his confused expression. “Like I said, I want you to feel safe.”

The boy blinks in surprise, staring down at the phone. “Oh.” He looks up, smiles tight and close-lipped. “Thank you.” He reaches for it, freezing fingers brushing George’s briefly.

George turns the heat up, something tight in his chest easing as the boy’s shivers do. “There’s a blanket in the back, if you need it.”

The boy shakes his head, leaning forward to adjust the heater. He shuts his eyes briefly as the warmth hits his face, relief softening his features. “This is fine, thanks.”

George turns the ignition, pulling them back onto the road. “Where do I go?”

“Straight, for now. I’ll tell you when to turn.” He rests his head against the passenger-side window, breath fogging the glass as he stares out into the night. George can’t help but think he seems to be looking for something, even if it’s impossible to see into the pitch darkness. It’s a miracle the boy even made it to a road.  

“I’m George,” he says into the strange silence. No answer, but George feels eyes settle on him, sharp and expectant. “You don’t have to tell me your name, if you don’t want to.”

“Alex,” the boy says after an extended pause.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Alex.”

He’s met with silence, doesn’t push it. There’s no point frightening the boy by seeming overly interested in him. He fixes his gaze back on the road ahead. It takes more effort than he expects. After the long, stifling solitude of the past two hours, he’s hyperaware of another presence beside him. The company is less grounding than he expected, and he half-expects to look over and find the seat empty.

A twinge of pain behind his eyes, a brief ache that brings up bright flares across his vision, across the road. He must make some sound, because Alex turns to watch him. The silence stretches past the acceptable point of inquiry, but Alex doesn’t turn back to his window.

The radio flickers to life briefly. Something with strings, swallowed by static. George switches it off, can’t remember why he didn’t, before. The void of sound that opens up hurts his head more than the static did. Christ, he needs to pull over and sleep for a few minutes once this errand is done. He can’t get home like this.  

“Aren’t you going to ask what I’m doing out here?” Alex asks, quiet and surprisingly soft.

“Would you tell me the truth if I did?”

A small sound of surprise. Alex’s mouth twitches, curls into something soft and almost inviting. “No.” A beat of quiet that pulses in tandem with George’s growing headache. “You need to stay awake.”

“I’m fine,” George says, tastes the lie before it’s even fully out of his mouth. He twists his grip on the wheel, trying to ground himself, trying to _stay awake._ “It’s been a long day.”

“Why?”

George frowns. “What?”

“Why was it a long day?”

“You don’t have to --”

“I die too, if you crash this thing,” Alex says wryly. “I don’t mind listening. Tell me about it.”

It’s too familiar a request between strangers, but if it puts the boy at ease, George can oblige him. He tells Alex about the client that dragged him and Greene all the way out here to meet on his property, about the misfiled paperwork this morning that made him late. Alex listens intently, and somewhere along the line, George loses control of his mouth. He realizes he can’t remember the last time he just _talked_ to someone, without self-editing for professionalism or worry of burdening. He tries at least twice, to stop, but each time Alex tilts his head and makes an expectant sound, eyes soft and enthralling, and then the words are spilling out again, about anything and everything. About Martha and the kids all the way back in Virginia, about how much he hates the city, how psychologically _draining_ practicing law can be after two decades.

He stops, finally, something twisting painfully in his chest. “I’m sorry, I don’t usually … that was entirely too much information.”  

“Sounds lonely,” Alex says, quiet enough that George doesn’t think he meant to say it out loud. He blinks and looks up at George, eyes wide but not necessarily regretful. “Sorry.”

“It’s alright.” George taps his fingers against the wheel, swallowing against some bitter emotion there’s no use in naming. “You’re not wrong.”

Alex says nothing, thankfully, but his eyes are too knowing for the quiet to be comforting. George’s phone screen fades to blackness, but Alex doesn’t hand it back to him to unlock.

The gurgling of an empty stomach breaks the silence, and Alex winces, looking faintly mortified. “Sorry.”

“There should be some granola bars in the glove compartment,” George says. “You’re welcome to whatever is there.”

Alex shakes his head quickly. “That’s not necessary.”

“I don’t mind.” A beat of strained silence. “They’re sealed, you don’t have to take my word for their safety."

Alex shakes his head, fingers spasming around the phone in his hand. “It’s not that. I just don’t like to make a habit of accepting handouts.” His stomach growls again, and he makes a sound that George can only call a hiss.

George frowns, glancing over in concern. “Son, I’m going to have to insist.”

Alex’s expression twists, an argument clearly on his tongue, but he stays silent. He stares blankly for a moment, something almost manic in his eyes before they refocus. He reaches to open the glove compartment, and George can make out yellowed, fading bruises on the inside of his right arm. George remains carefully silent. A few stray papers flutter to the floor.  

“Sorry.” Alex leans forward to pick up after himself, and the bruises shift from view. Alex straightens, a familiar photo in his hand, a little worn around the edges. He glances over, a brightness in his eyes that seems almost wet, before he blinks it away. “Your son?”

George smiles fondly, glancing over at the old school photo, the young boy grinning brightly into the camera, all gangly limbs and impossible energy. “Jacky. That was Picture Day in… seventh grade, I think. He’s about your age, now. Off in college.”

Alex nods slowly, gaze distant. He replaces the picture with unnecessary care, pausing a beat too long before letting go and reaching for the box of squashed but serviceable bars further inside the compartment. The rev of the engine and crinkling of the granola wrapper are the only sounds for a while. Alex eats much too quickly, barely pausing to chew. He’s done in a minute, maybe less, and stares at the empty wrapper with something like surprise, as if he doesn’t know where the rest of it went.

“You can finish the box,” George says gently.  

Alex nods fervently, and in the space of about five minutes, he’s done just that. His tongue darts out to lick his fingers clean. George turns his gaze back to the road.

“I’m sorry there isn’t more.”

“That was enough,” Alex says, oddly hoarse. “Thank you.”

He glances over, measuring his words before deciding bluntness might serve him best. “When’s the last time you ate properly, son?”

Alex blinks at him, seems confused with the question. The warmth in him from moments ago is gone, but he isn’t flinching back, either. There’s no fear or understanding in his eyes now, just… blankness. “Turn here,” Alex says, voice still strange. He sets George’s phone in the cupholder, and then grips his own knee tightly.

His tires rasp on the dirt road, car jerking slightly, and George grips the wheel tighter. Something hums at the back of his brain. Not quite _wrong,_ but warning. “If you’re in some kind of trouble, I can help you.”

Alex fixes him with a measured look,cautious but not quite dismissive. “Why are you telling me this?”

_Because this feels wrong, I don’t think you’re safe, I don’t think I’ll be able to live with myself if I leave and you end up dead._

He picks the least revealing, the least likely to scare Alex out into the night. “If my son was wandering out in the dark, I would want someone to help.”

It’s the wrong thing to say. He realizes it immediately, from the disappointment in Alex’s eyes, but it’s too late. Alex shakes his head, and failure is a solid weight in George’s chest. “I’m not your son, George.” He nods towards the window, and doesn’t look George in the eye again. “You can stop. We’re here.”

George frowns, looking out into the night. _Here_ doesn’t seem like much of anywhere, though he supposes he shouldn’t be surprised. The road ends abruptly up ahead, a dead end circled by shrubs and saplings.

Alex unfastens his seatbelt and reaches to push the door open the moment George stops the car. Cold air blows in, cutting through the warmth of the car. Alex shudders, and on impulse, George turns and reaches for his coat.

“Here, take this.” It’s much too big for the boy, he’ll be swallowed up in it. But he’ll be warm, at least, even if he looks like a child playing dress-up.

Alex looks down at the coat and frowns. He looks up at George as if he’s a particularly vexing problem Alex can’t seem to solve. “I can’t accept this,” he says, though with less confidence than George expects, considering his earlier protests.

“I’ll buy another one.” George frowns at Alex’s threadbare T-shirt. _You need it more than I do._ But those are the wrong words, and they fall away when he speaks again. “I want you to have it. Please.”

Alex’s gaze softens before he glances away, nodding slowly. He leans over to grab the coat, his fingers brushing George’s, still so cold. George tries to remember if he has gloves anywhere in the car, and doesn’t process the breaching of his space until Alex’s lips are pressing softly against his cheek. His mouth is warm, his breath hot where it brushes George’s skin. Something cracks open in George’s chest, pressing on already existing fault lines until they cave in, deep and wide and so fucking lonely he can’t _breathe_ with it.

Alex pulls back, his expression painfully young. “Thank you, for everything.” He pauses abruptly, gaze shifting to the window as if he’s heard something. “I have to go. Get onto a main road as soon as you can. Don’t stop for anyone else, and for fuck’s sakes, _stay awake_.”

“Alex --”

“Alexander,” he corrects, looking vaguely horrified at himself. He bites his lip, but doesn’t take it back, if there’s even a way he _could._  

“Alexander,” George repeats, wondering at the minute shudder that wracks the boy’s body at the sound of his name. George wonders if it sounds the way it tastes, like a gift. “Let me help you.”

Alex gathers George’s coat up in his arms, the corner of his mouth twitching into a brief smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “You already have.” Some of George’s reluctance must show on his face, because Alex’s eyes turn sad. “Go home, George.” His mouth twists, thoughtful, and his eyes seem to darken. “Take a vacation. Go see your family, and if you’re happy there, don’t come back.”

George blinks slowly, vision darkening at the edges. He can picture it perfectly, dream-like and sweet. He could catch the next flight south. Martha would be surprised, but she would welcome him with open arms. He could spend time with the kids, take time to rest for a few weeks, a few months...

A wave of nausea sweeps over him, and he tastes bile. His cheek aches, tender like a bruise. He tries to remember _why,_ but any attempt to focus brings up a sharp pain at the base of his skull that makes his vision spot, his thoughts sliding away like water. A soft, persuasive urge at the back of his mind presses him to keep driving, that he’s almost home. _Home_ is a vague, warm thought, sunshine and sea spray and warm arms around him, a well-loved voice humming a familiar melody, grief ocean leagues-deep --

A jolt, sharp and viciously keen. Not his. Not his home, not his _thought._  

He reaches out blindly, grasping for a memory he owns no part of --

His knuckles brush skin. The world rights itself, sky above him, ground firm under his feet. Alex, exactly an arm’s length away, trembling under George’s hand. They’re standing in a field, wind rustling the long grass, whisper-like. George glances back, sees his car, driver’s side door thrown wide open. He can’t remember getting out, but it feels right, real. The emotion is still there, guilt and panic thrumming through him like a second heartbeat.

Alex shove his hands into the pockets of his coat. George’s coat, hanging off of him and brushing the ground. Something proprietary flares in George’s chest at the sight, an almost jarring flash of warmth in the otherwise cold night.

“What the _fuck_ was that?” Alexander hisses, wide-eyed and manic in the moonlight. The question isn’t addressed to George, but if there’s any response, it’s beyond his hearing.

“I’m sorry,” George says softly. It seems insufficient, in the face as what he just felt, but it’s all he has. “I’m so sorry, Alexander.”

“Shut _up,”_ Alex snarls, a wounded sound. His skin is slightly damp to the touch, his words thick. “That wasn’t _yours,_ you weren’t supposed to...” He steps back, arms wrapping around himself as he looks away sharply.

“I wasn’t supposed to pry into your mind the way you pried into mine,” George finishes. “Is that what you meant?” The moment the words leave his mouth, he knows they’re true -- the thought is less unsettling than he would have anticipated. An explanation, even a fantastical one, sits easier than not knowing. That this boy is _more,_ somehow, makes more sense than anything else about this night.

Alex glares, poisonous and dangerously bright, before dropping his gaze again, chastened.

George stays silent, lets the boy take his time. His headache recedes, but the succeeding pain in his chest is worse -- something bone-deep and too potent to ignore.

“I was trying to help,” Alex mutters. “You wouldn’t leave otherwise, I could feel it.” He swipes a hand across his face, quick and irritated. “It should have worked.”

George thinks of walking through his front door, his house looming up dark and empty and silent before him. He thinks of Martha’s house, her lovingly tended rosebeds and the trellis out front, of Mount Vernon, silent and wasting away now, heirs either dead or gone. Nothing catches on _home,_ there’s no resonance, nothing to turn him back. The command, the… spell, whatever it was, has no hold on him.

“What do you want?” Alex asks, finally facing him again.

“Excuse me?”

Alex scoffs. “You gave me food, you gave me clothing, and you brought me out here. You’re owed. If you don’t want a free pass back to your world, what do you want?”

 _Your world._ It’s meant to shake him, he’s certain. Alexander’s expectant gaze anticipates some sort of response, and the flash of sheer consternation across his face when George doesn’t react is almost endearing.

“I didn’t help you for a reward, son,” George says gently. “I don’t want anything from you.”

Alex tilts his head, scrutinizing. “Do you forgive the debt, then?”

“There is no debt.”

“That’s not how this works.”

George sighs. “Alright, yes. You’re forgiven.” A heavy pause. He’s not sure what he expects Alex to do, but remaining still and silent certainly isn’t it. George takes a breath, watches the fog rise into the air as he exhales. “I’d like to ask you something, if that’s alright. What you decide is entirely up to you, it has nothing to do with your offer.”

Alex smiles, small but sharp. “Are you asking me for a gift, George?”

“If that’s what you want to call it,” George allows. “I’ll owe you, whatever that’s worth to you.”

Alex chokes out a laugh, devoid of humor, and lapses into a tense, expectant silence.

“Would you let me walk with you, to wherever you’re headed?”

Alex says nothing, but he doesn’t turn to leave, either. He breathes out shakily, murmurs words George can’t quite catch.

George frowns in confusion, brow furrowing. “Alexander?”

“Do whatever you want,” Alex mutters, turning on his heel and starting towards the treeline. For a moment, George isn’t sure if he _should_ follow, or if his presence will only upset the boy further. He has his answer mere moments later, when Alex turns and looks over his shoulder, something distinctly impatient in the flash of his eyes.

George follows.

The forest is a different sort of darkness, heavy and damp, complete. Alex reaches for his hand and tugs him forward, his movements practiced as he weaves them both through the twisted shrubbery. Alex is trembling, whether from cold or fear or pure energy, George has no way of knowing -- Alex won’t even look at him. Once his eyes adjust, George can make out a path, overgrown but visible, stretching out before them. Dark shapes press in on the corners of George’s vision, vanishing when he blinks. Alex’s grip tightens, nails digging into George’s palm as he presses himself against George’s side.

George isn’t foolish enough to assume it’s fear that draws the boy close, at least not fear for himself. This is Alex’s domain, inarguably -- pressed this close, George can even smell it on him, greenery and wild things. Whatever is moving around them stays hidden, even if George has the distinct feeling of being watched.

The path turns sharply, trees thinning out slightly. A small house sags low to the ground in front of them, crumbling into ruin, branches scrawled across the roof as if the forest is trying to consume the structure whole. George can make out a soft light in the uppermost windows, shapes moving within. For a moment, he thinks he hears music, but when he tries to focus in on it, it fades away. Alex lets out a breath, loosening his grip on George’s hand slightly.

“Do I leave you here?” George asks, disappointment rising in his throat, bitter and overwhelming.    

Alex turns sharply to face him, a challenge in the way he lifts his head to meet George’s gaze. “I gave you what you wanted, you owe me now,” he says. In the low light, George can barely see the whites of his eyes.

“What is it you want?”

Alex watches him for a long moment before stepping forward, hesitant. George holds himself as still as he can until Alex is pressed against his chest, a small warm shape. He rests his head against George’s shoulder, nose brushing the bare skin of his neck. George anticipates… something. Lips, teeth. But Alex stays perfectly still, his breath warming George’s throat. George recalls that flash of memory, the aching grief and loneliness, the sweet melody working its way through his mind. He hums under his breath, cautiously reaching a hand up and barely brushing the softness of Alex’s hair before the boy is jerking back, wide-eyed.

“I’m sorry,” George says, pained. “I wasn’t -- I won’t hurt you, I promise.”

Alex scoffs, takes a wet-sounding breath. After a few moments of uneven breathing -- “You can’t break oaths that you make out here.”

“Good.”

Alex laughs, a too-loud hiccup of sound. He clamps a hand over his mouth, moves back and forth a few steps before dropping his hand to clutch at his coat. “Why did you… that song, why?” Alex lets out a low whine, hurt and miserable. “Why are you making this so fucking _difficult?”_  

George grimaces. “I’m sorry I upset you, that wasn’t my intention. I thought that’s what you wanted.”

Another hiccuping sound, more sob than laugh. “It doesn’t fucking _matter_ what I want, I wasn’t asking you to be my fucking _mother.”_  

“Your mother,” George repeats, and shuts his eyes for a moment, pained and unsurprised. “You want her back?” Alex fixes him with a dark look, and something clicks into place -- the anticipation of teeth in his throat. “Is there a way I could bring her back to you?” George asks quietly, not an offer, but not entirely divorced from it, either.

“Maybe,” Alex mutters. “But that’s the dark shit. Life for a life.” He looks up and smiles, small and wry. “You’re good. That would make it worse, she would come back… wrong.”

“And that’s not enough for you.”  

Alex shakes his head. “She was good, too.” He pauses, staring at George, _through_ him. “If I told you to go back, you would have to,” he says, distant. “It’s not like before -- now you owe me.”

“You don’t have to order me away,” George tells him. “I’ll leave if you want me to.”

“I know,” Alex says, and then, “Come with me.”

\-----------

The room is large and airy, high vaulted ceilings and glittering chandeliers, dripping gold and crystal. Alex passes in front of him, and the room shifts, shrinks, worn wood floors instead of marble, the tinny sound of an old radio, a voice crooning in a language George can’t quite pin down. He blinks, and the room is as it was before, large and vacant. He feels momentarily unsteady, like the floor is liquid, moving underneath him.

The room is empty, save for a long dining table in the center. Finely carved from solid, polished wood, thrown over with a tablecloth that shimmers, shifts colors as they approach. On top of it, countless plates of food. Silver bowls piled high with fruit, delicate china topped with intricately-assembled sweets and still-steaming pastries, cups filled with jewel-colored liquids, everything impossibly appealing to the senses.

George’s stomach rumbles, the sound seeming to echo off the walls.

“You can eat, if you want,” Alex says softly. His eyes are too dark in this bright room, haunted and hungry. He makes no move towards the food.

George turns his attention to the feast in front of him. He doesn’t trust it entirely, and yet Alex has no reason to do him harm. He believed the boy’s distaste for “the dark shit”. George reaches towards to bowl nearest to him, takes the peach sitting at the top. The scent is… off, somehow. Too sweet, almost candy-like, though the fruit in his hand looks and feels real, ripe and a perfect, soft pink. George places it back in the bowl. The cloying scent lingers with him, and as he gazes down the length of the table, all he can smell, taste, is sugar, syrupy and thick. He steps back, senses reeling. His mouth tastes like ashes.

“It’s not real,” he says, his voice strangely hoarse, and the table setting melts before his eyes.  

The tablecloth is tattered and moth-eaten, barely held together in most places by fraying thread. The tableware is in pieces, bowls cracked down the middle, contents spilling out, raw and bloody or else congealed and rotting. He turns, and the room is considerably darker, cobwebs strewn across the chandeliers, dust gathering in the corners. The scent of rot and air gone stale. The deception shocks him less than it should have, and when he looks at Alex, it’s with less surprise than disappointment.

Alex blinks in shock, gaze raking over the ruined display in mounting horror. “That’s not supposed to happen,” he says, something of a lost child in his voice. “You’re supposed to eat, and…”

“And stay,” George finishes, without bitterness. He was given his chances to leave.  

Alex meets his gaze, unashamed. “Yes. But there’s nothing else here, and it… it has to be in this room, that’s the rule. I can’t take you to any other part of the house.”

George glances back down at the table spread, searching. The fruit is black and leaking, the sweets hardened and covered in mold and dust. A glint catches his attention, minute in the dust-dimmed light but still visible. George pushes aside a cracked plate of rotted fruit, revealing a knife, well-polished and honed sharp. Intentionally laid, if the rest of the rusted cutlery is any indication.

“Oh,” Alex breathes, as George picks it up. “Fuck, that’s _hilarious.”_ He doesn’t sound particularly amused, though, and when George looks up, Alex’s eyes are wide and fearful.  

“What, exactly, is the rule?” The knife is warm under his hand, fits perfectly against his palm. He stomach lurches uneasily.

“A taste of something in the dining room,” Alex replies. “No more and no less.” His mouth twitches. “I should have known it would be blood. It’s always blood, here.”

 _“No,”_ George says, his voice rough with horror. His fingers don’t uncurl from the handle.

“I’m hard to kill,” Alex offers. “It’s kind of a talent of mine.”

“I promised not to hurt you,” George argues. “You said that was binding.”

“I decide what hurts me,” Alex says, and his smile is tired. “Loopholes, George. Isn’t it your job to find them?”

“I’ve had enough of that work for a lifetime,” George mutters, and finally, _finally,_ his hand starts to obey him, grip loosening just slightly before his muscles lock again.  

“I gave you my name,” Alex says softly, something pained moving across his face. “I’m still owed, and this is what I’m asking.”

A brief moment of pain, and then a life of companionship. Is that a fair trade, after a lifetime of loneliness?

Alex tilts his head, exposing the long line of his throat for the blade. “Take your taste,” Alex challenges, something wavering underneath the bravado in his voice, something hurt in his eyes.

George hesitates for a moment, if that. It’s a painfully easy choice to make. He reaches for Alex’s waist with his free hand. Alex shudders, eyes sliding shut, but allows himself to be held in place. George presses his lips to the boy’s cheek, repays the gift Alex forgot to take stock of. He pulls away, and Alex follows for a fraction of a moment, chasing the touch with a soft, pleading sound before catching himself. George reaches up, brushing the boy’s jaw and pushing gently, adjusting the angle as Alex’s heartbeat pulses rabbit-quick under his fingertips.

He presses the knife handle-first into Alex’s hand, wrapping Alex’s fingers around it.

Dark eyes open, startled and betrayed. “What, _no --”_

“Use it if you need to,” George says, and leans down to press his mouth to Alex’s, swallowing whatever argument the boy was about to make. Alex makes a quiet, startled sound, his mouth soft and impossibly sweet under George’s. Alex presses forward, his movements surprisingly careful as he kisses, free hand coming up to tangle with George’s.   

George’s hand falls to Alex’s hip, tugging him closer, and Alex’s hand pushes against his, warm metal grazing his palm as Alex tries to hand the knife back. A reminder of debt unpaid, or a plea to pay it _now_ while there’s ample distraction -- whatever it is, George is sick to death of _debts._ He all but growls in frustration -- too keen by half, and Alex still can’t grasp that George will be _damned_ if he ever comes at him, at _his_ boy, with a weapon. He pulls Alex against him, more roughly than he intended, and Alex pushes against him with heart-wrenching eagerness, lips parting easily as George deepens the kiss.

George pulls back for a breath, and when he presses back, takes Alex’s bottom lip between his teeth and bites down until the delicate skin bursts, the taste of iron flooding his mouth as he sucks gently on the wound. The knife falls to the floor with a strangely non-metallic thud, but George doesn’t bother to look at what it becomes, too focused on soothing Alex’s wound with his tongue, on winding his hand through Alex’s soft, soft hair and tugging on it to feel him gasp against George’s mouth. Alex grips George’s shoulders and surges up to deepen the kiss, messy and utterly artless, shaking in George’s arms.

He’s laughing, George realizes as they part, bright and delighted and relieved with his lip split open and blood on his teeth.

Somewhere, an old radio crackles to life, and this time, George understands the words.

He licks the back of his teeth, and his tongue comes away sweet.

**Author's Note:**

> *The title translates to "the beautiful boy with mercy", and is a nod to John Keats' ballad "La Belle Dame sans Merci" (The Beautiful Lady Without Mercy), wherein the protagonist is lured to his demise by a beautiful fairy girl. The quotation in the summary is an excerpt from this same poem, with pronouns changed to suit this story.  
> * The 'rules', as Alex calls them in this story, are a mix of folklore, mythology, superstitions, and my own imaginings. For the purposes of the story, they all hold significance in the fae realm him and George find themselves in later on in the story.  
> *I'm on Tumblr at [icarusandtheson](https://icarusandtheson.tumblr.com/), come say hi!


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